


151 - Van, the Supportive Boyf (When Ya Want Plastic Surgery)

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: F/M, Reader-Insert, body pos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 09:09:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17404094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompt “one where vans girlfriend wants to get a boob job and like what he thinks about it and how he supports her and stuff, thanks?” Bonus mini-request for including the line “I don’t shine if you don’t.”





	151 - Van, the Supportive Boyf (When Ya Want Plastic Surgery)

"Van?"

He looked up from his notebook. He'd been scribbling into it at the kitchen table since he got home. "Yeah, darlin',"

"Do you think Dani's pretty?"

"Benji's Dani?" You nodded. He thought for a second; his face frowning in confusion. "Yeah. I guess. Never thought about her like that. Why?"

"But she's a complete babe, right? Like, has a good butt and nice boobs and stuff?"

Van looked at you, still confused. You could see he was trying to read your emotion, figure out what you were doing. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"Yes. Why won't you answer?"

"I don’t think you're really asking me 'bout Dani. What's up?" He closed his book and stood. You folded your arms defensively across your chest as he moved closer to you. He tried to hug you but you ducked out of the way.

"I've got to get these vegetables on. Move," you instructed, pushing him gently aside. You put the tray of cut up potato on the top shelf.

"Y/N. Why'd you ask me about Dani's butt and boobs?" Van asked, watching you pull pumpkin from the fridge. You shrugged.

"Do you want parsnip?"

"Y/N. You can't randomly ask somethin' like that then just drop it,"

"Larry!" you yelled. You could hear the television mute, then Larry appeared in the doorway. "Do you want any parsnip? We've got potato, onion and pumpkin,"

"Yeah. Sure. I don't mind," he said. His arrival in the room meant Van had no choice but to let go of the conversation. You knew he'd probably ask you about it later, so you added more wine into the cooking in the hopes of getting him drunk. That's not how cooking with alcohol works, but it made you feel better anyway.

…

A few days after you were laying on the couch watching America's Next Top Model. Van walked in and laid on top of you. All the oxygen was quickly pushed from your lungs and you squeaked under his weight.

"Why you watchin' this trash?" he asked, reaching for the remote. He flicked through stations.

"Van. Off. Heavy," you said. He chuckled and rearranged your bodies so you were both on your sides spooned together. He settled on something to watch, but you closed your eyes and let yourself melt into him. Van's hands moved down your side and across your thighs. "Can I ask you something?"

"Are you gonna ask me about my mate's girlfriend's again?"

"Van,"

"Sorry. Yeah. What's up?" he asked, kissing your neck. Your head reflexively angled to expose more skin to him.

"Do you think I'm proportioned right?"

"Whaddayamean?" he mumbled into your neck.

"Like, I feel like my hips are too wide for my frame, you know? And my thighs don't match my boobs," you explained. Van stopped kissing your neck. He half lifted you up to twist your body to face him.

"Babe. You're perfect. You know I think you're perfect. You need to stop watching them shows,"

"It's not the shows. It's just… I don't feel good, like, about me, you know?"

"Since when?"

"Forever," you replied with a shrug. You'd never really traced the origin of your self-esteem issues. Like most girls brainwashed into thinking there was a standard of beauty that has to meet, it was a conditioned-from-birth type of thing.

"But you're dead gorgeous. I'm not doing my job if you think otherwise," Van said.

"It's not your job to convince me I'm pretty or anything. Like, I don't need… validation, or whatever. I just… I was thinking of looking into different procedures,"

"Plastic surgery, you mean?"

"Maybe,"

"What do you want done?" he asked, face frowning and sitting up a little. You pulled him back down, needing him close.

"Boob job. Think it would just balance me out," you said. You watched Van for a reaction. For disapproval, or happiness at the thought of a girlfriend with a bigger cup size. He was unreadable though. His thinking face was his most serious, and you could see him processing a lot of different thoughts. Slowly, he started to nod.

"Okay. If that's what you want. It's your body. I just… I think you're perfect,"

"I know,"

"You promise you know though? Like, I don't need you to change or anythin',"

"Van, even if you were the type of guy to tell his girlfriend she needs a boob job, do you think I am the type of girl to listen to that?"

He smirked and shook his head. "No. You'd tell me to fuck off,"

"Exactly. I want to do this for me," you said.

"Okay. Well, I don’t shine if you don't, so whatever you want, babe," he replied and kissed your forehead, then settled you back down cradled in his arms.

…

When you first told Van you were thinking about cosmetic surgery, you had thought you were still in the process of making a decision. Evidently, the last factor was Van. As soon as he knew, you were determined. He'd offered to pay, but you didn't want to feel like he literally owned any part of you; not even silicon pouches hidden in your chest. Because of that, it took a while to save the money, but finally there was enough, and you had your first appointment. Van was more nervous about it than you. On the way to the clinic, he was fidgety and almost ran a red light. As he slammed on the breaks his arm went out to hold you safe. After calming him down by running your fingers through his hair, he started to talk.

"Is the doctor a man or a woman?" he asked.

"Does it matter?" Van shrugged. "There aren't many women cosmetic surgeons around, but I found one. She's a woman,"

"Will she touch you?"

"Yes,"

"Is she going to say there's stuff wrong with your body?"

"I don't know. She'll probably just tell me what I could change to be more like my ideal body type, or whatever. I don't know," you answered. Trying to act casual was hard when you were terrified it would be like the television shows where the doctor drew thick red lines around your fat and stood staring at your naked body. 

"Do you want a codeword for if you want to bail?" Van asked, watching you chew your lip. A nervous tick he'd figured out about you years ago, early in the relationship. "Just say… Fuzzy peach… if you want to leave. Okay?"

You laughed. "Fuzzy peach?"

"I watched Mighty Boosh this morning when you were still sleeping," he explained with a shrug. "Fuzzy little peach man."

In the waiting room, Van held your hand tight as you surveyed the other people. You felt horrible for it, but your brain automatically tried to work out what they were there for. When your name was called you followed the nurse into a consultation room where you were instructed to remove your shirt and put on a paper medical gown. Van held your t-shirt to his chest like it could protect him from the world's harm.

You liked your doctor. She was warm and understood that regardless of where the need for change began, wanting change was a valid option for people. You stood in front of a mirror and listened to her explain that your body was average in the sense that it was not proportioned incorrectly, that in fact, that wasn't a thing about bodies at all. She said that you could go up two cup sizes and it would be within the realm of what you could have been born with. You said that's what you wanted. You dressed, and carefully went over the pre-surgery procedure and post-surgery care. Van was included in the conversation as he would be the one looking after you. Back at reception, you booked a date, and that was that.

The car ride home was calmer and quiet. Van reached over and held your thigh. "Fuzzy peach works still, okay? If you don’t want to do this at any point, that's okay,"

"I know. I'm good. This is what I want. I'm excited,"

"You're loud when you're excited," he replied, carefully slowing for an orange light.

"I'm scared and excited then. I'm good,"

"Okay. Just checking. Just want you to be happy."

…

More than anything else, it was the process of being knocked out that you were scared of. Van wasn't allowed in for the surgery, but he was there as an anaesthetist had you count back from 100. You started to get sleepy at 90.

"Van," you whined. He held your hand tight.

"You're okay, baby,"

"I'm okay," you whispered. He nodded and things started to go blurry. "You don't shine if I don't?"

"I don't shine if you don't," Van agreed as you passed out.

When you woke up you were still numb. The pain would come though, but you were saved for a few hours. Van was at your side writing in his notebook again. He smiled up at you.

"Am I okay?" you asked him.

"Yeah. Course you are. They said everything went good. She'll come see you soon," he said about your doctor. You nodded and tried to sit up. "Noooo no no no. They told me to not let you sit,"

"I wanna-"

"No. Stay. What do you need? I'll get it for you."

Van fussed around with apple juice and pillows until your doctor arrived. She confirmed what Van had said, that the surgery was 100% successful. She said you'd be mostly back to normal within four to six weeks. Staying overnight was optional, but you opted to do so. It added to the overall expensive, but it would alleviate a lot of the anxiety Van had about looking after you. He went out to get you dinner and stayed late until you fell asleep. He had to bribe the night staff not to kick him out. He was there when you woke up in the morning, coffee and pastries in hand.

…

Two months later you were standing in front of the bedroom mirror. You'd pulled your jeans on and had caught your reflection while looking for the one bra you really liked. You thought maybe if you liked your chest more that you'd like bra shopping more. Incorrect. You stood looking at your new curves. There was so much bruising for so long that you never really got to see how the surgery had changed your body until months later. Van walked into the room, talking about something to do with Larry and biscuits. He stopped when he saw you, a smirk forming on his lips. He walked and stood behind you, hands moving across you. You were new to him again too. You both had the joy of exploration. 

"You good, babe?" he asked. You nodded. "Don't want to pop out for a new ass or anything?" he teased. You stepped away and pushed at him playfully.

"Fuck off!"

"I'm jokin', come here," he said and pulled you back to him. Chest pressed against his t-shirt, his hands ran up and down your back. "You're beautiful. Always have been. Always will be."


End file.
